


Of Heaven or of Hell?

by prxmerc



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Gen, I may write more about this?, One Shot, depending on how this is received--, g-slur, lbr tho im writing more phantom soon anyway, or maybe Erik reminiscing, young erik!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 18:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17965826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prxmerc/pseuds/prxmerc
Summary: "They were afraid of him now, but only because he wanted them to be. Before they left, he would have them in tears. 'And, not from fear this time', he thought."A brief look into Erik's first performance as a child, when he still traveled with the Romani people and was earning his name as The Living Corpse.





	Of Heaven or of Hell?

He couldn't have been anything more than a child, they'd say, a small, pitiful looking corpse reduced to a bundle of bones still clad in cheap funeral clothes.

An unwelcome tension settled over the crowd, as thick as the incense that stuffed the cramped tent. Divination's and _Romani sorcery_ was one thing, but to be put with an actual body-- of a child, no less! But there was no room to speak, no room to breathe, no room to escape when the candles that lit the worn interior were suddenly put out.

Everyone's attention was gathered to the only remaining source of light: four candles, in a circle around the corpse, flickering and dancing his shadow across the shabby tarp.

An eerie sort of silence fell upon the tent, as if a cold foreboding had gripped every soul so suddenly, so fiercely. Words could not express the horribly intimate silence that was shared, then, and no one wanted to acknowledge it.

His face...was something terrible. Deeply sunken hallows, where the boy's eyes should have been, stared back into each and every person. His skin was thin and nearly translucent, yellowed, that the bones and sinewy muscles underneath it could be seen like thick cords.

"Look! Look!" a frightened hiss came from somewhere in the crowd. "Look at its hand!"

The crowd gasped and hushed whispers fell across the floors as the small, skeletal figure at the center of the stage drew his violin bow. Nothing else had changed from him; the child still sat slack in the chair, head down, but one weak-seeming arm was snaking in the air, raised and shaking against the weight of the bow. 

"It's moving by itself--"

"Impossible..." 

'I was _gypsy magic_!' some would still claim.

The bow fell onto the violin, striking the first note and, all at once, silencing everyone.

He could make them love him, he always believed. Perhaps not true love, no, _love is a fickle beast_. But there was a time when he once trusted that he could make others think they could love him. Love was tamable, he assumed, malleable; it was a silly little fantasy, childish, and one he believed many, many years ago.

All he needed to do was play his music, and they would love him. But, only now, years later, was Erik able to look back and understand that what he saw in their eyes was not love, it was fascination, fear, a morbid sort of admiration that he devoured like a starved dog when he was a child. And like a pitiful mutt, he gave them his soul willingly.

He swore he saw a few people jump back in that tent, then, as he sprung to life-- it was a funny thing that he couldn't help but smile almost proudly! --and he continued that pretty, old Romani lullaby he'd heard on passing.

They were afraid of him now, but only because he wanted them to be. Before they left, he would have them in tears. _And, not from fear this time_ , he thought.

There was still some shame to be felt, looking back on those hopeful days. _He was truly a pitiful little corpse_! But, he was blind in the past...happily, maybe...and, though hapless, perhaps it would have been kinder if he remained so.

No more words were spoken in that tent. They lived that moment as Erik lived: only through music. And the child was eager-- words could not describe the shock of seeing a grinning corpse, living and moving across a stage, breathing, laughing, playing like a mad demon that was summoned by the very candles he was surrounded by. His music, too, was a thing of beautiful, intricate nightmares, tugging at the heart in ways that would otherwise be moving in any other venue. All eyes were on him, existed for only him. And those who were not taken by what the boy had believed to be love, were captured and cemented in place by fear.

Before anyone had the time to realize, the song had come to an end.

The dead child bent forward and blew out the last two remaining candles. A few in the crowd blinked dumbly, as if coming out of a stupor, while some others looked to those nearest to them as if to search for answers, only to find their tongues as numb as their brains.

Only one thing felt unanimous, though, between those silently shared glances: what they experienced was nothing of man; the true question, however, was whether it was of heaven or hell.

Behind them, the tarp opened again, and a few Romani men quickly gestured the crowd out, though none made eye contact with the boy, or even spared him a glance. And, those visitors bold enough to cast an eye over their shoulders as they were shoved away would have only caught the vague outline of the boy's back, leaning down to grab a mask that he pulled from behind the stage.

There seemed to be no mystery to him, for that second. Without seeing his face, he was only a boy-- horrifyingly thin, with clothes hanging slack from his bony frame, but a boy all the same.

From then on, word traveled quickly through hushed whispers. Coin would be exchanged, the boy would preform again, and his name only continued to grow. With time, it became a rather lucrative occupation. But, as with all things, this, too, had to come to an end eventually.

Erik could still remember the peak of those days when new visitors had tried to ogle at him from between the thin openings of his tent. And, what they would see would always be the same: a little corpse of a child that sat alone in a chair, motionless-- like a true corpse! Black funeral clothes, and a cheaply ornate mask was laid carefully atop his face. And, nothing else, save for the violin held snug in his arm, as if he died there, clutching it to his last breath.

**Author's Note:**

> i was listening to Zigeunerweisen by Sarasate and wanted to do a little drabble. hope you like it!


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